ther trouble, he gave orders for them to leave Eichburg the next morning at break of day.

The next morning, when Mary and her father, accompanied by the officer who was charged with their guidance, passed by the gate of the castle, Jenny came out to look at them. And since the affair had, in the opinion of the frivolous and unfeeling girl, resulted so favorably, beyond all her expectations, her former vivacity had again returned. It had seemed to her quite too bad for Mary to be put to death, but that she should be exiled, was precisely what she could have wished. She had been all along afraid that, in the end, Mary might supplant her and get her situation, but this apprehension was now quieted forever, and her former hatred towards Mary, the gratification she felt in her ruin, gained once more the complete ascendancy in her heart. The countess Amelia as she saw Mary's flower basket standing upon the bureau, had once said to Jenny, "Take this basket out of my sight! It awakes memories which are too sad; I cannot look upon it without pain." Jenny took it into her possession, and now she brought it out with her. "There, you have your present again," said she to Mary. "My gracious mistress desires nothing from such hands as yours. Your glory is now gone, like the flowers for which you got yourself so well paid, and it affords me particular pleasure to give you the basket." She threw down the basket at

Mary's feet, and turned back with a haughty smile into the castle, and closed the gate violently behind her.

Mary picked up the basket in silence, and with tears in her eyes went on. Her father had not even a staff for his journey, and Mary nothing but her little basket. She looked back again and again a hundred times, to the late quiet roof beneath which she was born, till at last both the castle, and the turrets of the church tower were lost to her vision behind an intervening hill.

The officer conducted Mary and her father to the boundary line of the count's territory, and there left them in the midst of a large forest. Worn out with anxiety and grief, and wearied with the journey, the old man sat down upon a moss-covered stone, beneath the shadow of a venerable and friendly oak.

"Come to me, my child," said he, clasping her to his bosom; then he folded her hands together, and raised them with his own, towards heaven; "first of all," he continued, "let us thank God that he has again brought us forth from the dark, stifled prison to breathe the fresh air beneath his own open skies; that he has saved our lives, and given you, dear child, once more to your father."

Father Jacob lifted his eyes to the heavens, which were now shining down in brightness and beauty through the green foliage of the oak, and with a full

voice thus prayed: "Gracious Father in heaven; thou sole consolation of thy children upon earth; thou mighty protector of all the oppressed; accept our united thanks for our merciful deliverance from bondage and chains, from prison and death. Accept our thanks for all the benefits which have been conferred upon us in this land, for how can we leave these borders without first lifting to thee our grateful hearts. And behold, before we enter upon a foreign soil, we offer up our supplications to thee. Look down upon a poor father and his poor, weeping child. Take thou us under thy protection. Be thou our guide upon the rough pathway over which I and my poor child must now perhaps travel. Lead us to good men, and incline thou their hearts to pity; let us find upon thy broad, vast earth, some little spot where we may quietly spend the remaining days of our pilgrimage, and then die in peace. Yea, such a place thou hast, although we know it not, and doubtless it is already prepared for us. In faith go we forth, and we wander, trusting on thee."

Thus prayed they both, for Mary repeated in her inmost soul every word of her father, and both of their hearts felt the influence of spiritual comfort, and were filled with a higher and more joyous confidence.

CHAPTER VIII.

A FRIEND IN NEED.

At this moment Anthony, the count's old game-keeper, made his appearance and came up to them. He had been with Jacob in the count's service when they were young men; indeed they were two of his attendants in his travels. He had been out deer-hunting for a day or two, and very fortunately chanced upon father Jacob and his daughter, at a time most acceptable to them.

"God bless you, Jacob," said he, "is that you? I thought I knew your voice, and I am not mistaken. O God! and so after all they have exiled you. It is very hard indeed, to be obliged to quit a loved home in one's old age!"

"The whole earth under the blue heavens is the Lord's," replied Jacob, "and his love reigns every where, and is over us, go where we may. But our home is in heaven."

"But in the name of mercy," continued the gamekeeper in a tone of compassion, "have they sent you forth just as you are? Why, you have not even the clothes necessary for such a journey."

"He who clothes the flowers of the field," answered Jacob, "will not fail to clothe us."

"And as to money," said the game-keeper, "I hope they have not sent you away without providing you with that."

"We have a good conscience," answered Jacob, "and are therefore richer than if the stone on which I sit were gold, and belonged to us."

"But tell me," said Anthony, "have you really not a cent ?"

"This empty basket here at our feet," replied Jacob, "is our only possession. What do you think it is worth?"

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"O, half a dollar, or perhaps a dollar," said the game-keeper sorrowfully. "But what is that?" 'Why, then," continued Jacob with a smile, are rich indeed, at least as long as God lends me the use of my hands. I can make a hundred such baskets in a year, at the lowest rate, and with a hundred dollars a year, we could live very comfortably. My father, who was a basket-maker, insisted on it that I should learn basket-making also, as well as gardening, so that I might have some useful employment in winter when I had nothing to do abroad.— Though in his grave, I thank him still. He did more and cared better for me than if he had left me two thousand dollars, the interest of which would scarcely · nett me more than a hundred. A healthy mind, a